Winterlong
by Sagacious Rage
Summary: It may have been love at first sight, but neither seems to know what to do next. A season of missteps and misunderstandings follows. Fluff, some mild hurt/comfort. This story is 3 parts.
1. Autumn

Arianne kissed Quintus because she thought he was about to die. And he was so handsome, and had treated her so kindly, it seemed a waste to miss the chance. She certainly didn't _mean_ anything by it. His lips were cold, and carried the lingering taste of blood, but his eyes were warm and happy. She thought it would be a good way to die.

But he didn't die. He recovered. Rather quickly, in fact. She discovered that he hadn't consumed nearly as much of the poison nor lost half as much blood as she originally thought.

Which was awkward. She hoped that perhaps he wouldn't remember. That he had been too ill, too delirious with pain and poison. She bustled about the hut with her customary chores and would glance at him out of the corner of her eye from time to time, wondering what was going through his mind. He was always just... watching her. With a sort of thoughtful expression. It made her skin feel hot and her insides feel cold at the same time.

Thank the gods he was quiet. She was so accustomed to being left to her own devices and her own thoughts that she wouldn't have known what to do with a talkative man.

And so they passed their days in near total silence, save a few pleasantries exchanged in Latin and Pictish as the mood struck. She would leave most mornings to check her trap line, fish and forage and bring food back. He was always most appreciative of what she managed to cook for him.

"Far better than anything they served the centurions," he said with that small, almost wry smile that made her feel all warm and quivery.

She ducked her head and laughed. "I don't really know if that is a compliment to me or a criticism to them."

"It's a compliment," he said simply, his voice soft. "Where I come from it's considered polite to compliment the cook."

She kept her head down to avoid his eyes and that quiet, thoughtful way he looked at her. "Where I come from it's considered polite to express that appreciation by way of breaking wind after the meal. The louder the better." She said with a perfectly straight face. He was silent and she quickly glanced up at him. His gentle eyes were no longer looking at her in that thoughtful way but instead were opened wide, stunned. "You could always belch, of course. If the body does not cooperate," she informed him, keeping her face just as serious.

Finally he broke into a quiet laugh. "I think I'd prefer to use my words, if you don't mind."

She smiled. His laugh was warm and gentle, just like his eyes.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before he left again, rejoined the rest of the Romans at the wall. Best not to grow accustomed to him. She couldn't figure out why he had come back at all, to be perfectly honest. Perhaps the Romans had no competent healers. They had so many men, they didn't have to be so concerned when one fell ill or wounded. Though that didn't mean the individuals _themselves_ weren't concerned when such a thing happened to them.

He grew stronger, took to following her when she left in the mornings. It was good for his recovery, to be up and moving like that. Besides, having company was a grand change of pace. Though she fretted about the temperature affecting his health. "It will be winter soon," she pointed to the thick coating of hoarfrost on the grass. "You should mind yourself. The cold does no favors to a man in your state."

He stepped closer. Just enough for her to notice. "And do you have any suggestions for how I might stay warm?" he said, his voice warm and gentle as ever, with just a hint of humor. His thoughtful eyes glancing at her, a hint of something _more_ in his gaze.

Her mind raced, her stomach fluttering. "Fire. There's always fire." She said quickly.

He paused and nodded, leaning back widening the distance between them. "Yes. Fire is very helpful in such situations." He lifted her basket of foraged berries. "Shall we return to it?" She nodded and he turned and led the way back to the hut. She breathed in a lungful of air, cold and sharp, before following.


	2. Winter

Winter was long and cold and dismal, as always. But Quintus remained. Perhaps he felt he was too weak to travel all the way back to the wall when the first snows hit. And soon enough the weather was so dreadful and the wolves so hungry that no sane man would attempt the journey until spring.

So she had him until spring. And tried to make herself content with this. Far more than she ever expected, to be sure.

They spent most of their time in companionable silence. She made potions and simples and knit and darned and did all the other endless chores that usually filled up her winter hours. He sharpened every blade in the hut, repaired every bit of leather, polished every metal object, and when his store of skills was exhausted, he whittled fantastic creatures out of bits of firewood. "That's a leopard," he said, handing it to her. "See the spots?"

She set down her knitting and carefully held the small, catlike form up to the beam of sunlight lingering in the pale afternoon, squinting at it. Sure enough, he had carefully whittled small indentations in the animal, which cast spotlike shadows over its surface. "And how big is this creature? Three times the size of my home, hm?" she asked with a hint of mirth. His attempts to explain the size of elephants had been met with nothing but mockery and skepticism on her part.

He laughed and shook his head. "No. Not quite so large." He stroked his chin thoughtfully, looking up. "They're about the size of one of those large hounds your kings have. But shaped a bit differently, they don't stand quite as high."

"Are they fierce creatures?" She asked, turning the small figure in her palm. Its lips were drawn back in a snarl to reveal sharp teeth, its claws raised.

He nodded. "Quite fierce. My father fought them in the arena. One clawed him across the throat." He drew his fingers across his face and neck. "A great scar."

She ducked her head, her hand lifting to conceal the scar on her own face. "How unfortunate for him," she said, suddenly awkward.

Quintus gently touched her hair, pushing it behind her ear, his fingertips trailing over the back of her hand. Her skin prickled at his touch. "Why didn't you leave?" she whispered, trembling a little. "You could have made it to the wall before the snows arrived."

"I don't know," Quintus said, his fingers lingering. "Perhaps I was bewitched."

An old, ugly hurt boiled up in her heart, nearly choking her. "Not by me," she hissed, throwing the leopard at him. And before he had a chance to say another word, she leapt to her feet, grabbed her cloak, and bolted out into the snow.

She crashed through the underbrush, heedless of the branches whipping her face, tearing her skirt. What difference did a few scratches make, anyway? Her face was ruined already.

Blinded by angry tears, she didn't see the fallen branch until it was too late. She tripped and fell to her knees. Angry sobs tore at her throat. She choked them down, not sure whether they were from painful memories or her stinging palms, and unwilling to think much on either.

Leaning back on her haunches, she lifted her hands from the ground and hissed at the blood and dirt embedded in her palms. A snap of a twig behind her announced his presence just before he cleared his throat. She glared back at him. "What do you want?" she demanded, gritting her teeth as she carefully began picking tiny stones out of her wounds.

He spread his hands out in front of him and crouched before her to meet her eye, as was his habit whenever she found herself in such a position. "To apologize. I meant no offense. Truly."

Her anger subsided as she realized he was sincere, leaving only that hollow sadness and regret she had come to know so intimately. She swallowed the last of her bile before she spoke. "I loved a man. He said he loved me. But when we were discovered by his wife, he claimed that I had bewitched him. Gorlacon believed him, of course. His brother always was possessed of a silver tongue, after all." Her lips twisted in bitterness as she remembered all the beautiful things Dalaigh had said to her. And how they disappeared like mist in the valley as soon as she had become inconvenient. The winds were even crueler than she expected, she realized as she wrapped her arms around her stomach, hunching her shoulders.

Quintus reached out slowly. When she did not flinch away, he gathered her cloak more firmly about her. "But you didn't?"

"No, I didn't!" she cried, leaning toward him, his broad back shielding her from the wind. "True, I had already begun learning the arts. I perform divinations and bestow blessings and, yes, can cast hexes and curses. I heal injuries and brew remedies. But I've never bewitched a man for love." She pressed her lips together to stop their trembling. "Kisses bought with potions, feelings created by spells. They are cheap illusions. When I have love, I want it _honestly_!" She balled her fists, unable to stop the tremor in her voice.

Gently, he touched her face, lifting her chin so that she would meet his eye. His lovely, clear blue eyes. His thumb brushed over her lips and she shivered from something other than the cold. "And will you kiss me, my honest love?"

"No," she said, shrinking back, anticipating the blow.

But he did not become violent. Or angry. He simply let his hand drop. "May I ask why?"

"Because I don't love you," she blurted. And instantly felt a hot rush of shame as he nodded and looked away.

"And so I owe you yet another apology." He stood and made his way back to the hut.

She lingered behind, gathering a few more bits of wood. The sort he liked to whittle. She didn't even know why, exactly. After her heartless admission, one she couldn't even say for certain was _true_, surely he would no longer find entertainment in adding to her menagerie.

She slipped in quietly, feeling uncomfortable. As if she were an intruder in her own home. He sat by the fire and glanced up at her briefly before looking away. "Well. Hello again." She cleared her throat and set the bits of wood on the woodpile with the others.

She went to fetch her apron from the hook by the larder when she noticed something on the table. A small wooden horse. Frowning, she turned to the shelf where she had displayed the other animals. But the original horse was still there. "But..." she said, still not understanding.

"She needed a friend," Quintus said as he began resharpening one of his blades. "She's spent too much time alone."

Arianne took the second horse and carried it over to the shelf. "What if she doesn't like him?" She asked quietly, rearranging the other animals to make room.

"I hope she will," he said, pausing a moment to look up at her. His eyes gentle, if a bit sad.

She set the second horse next to the first. It stood a bit taller, its head bending over the other one. "I think they're sharing stories," she said. "Perhaps she will grow to like him, in time." She drifted her fingers over the others, lightly touching each one. "Why do you make these?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Surely you could find other things to do."

"I could," he agreed easily. "But I like doing this."

"Why?" She pressed, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Because you listen to me. And you smile. And I like both of those things." He said simply.

"Oh," she said, unsure of what else to say.

She had him until spring. And would try to make herself be content with this.


	3. Spring

Normally, Arianne greeted the coming of spring with open arms and a happy heart. But she did not find her customary joy in the melting snows, the budding flowers, the returning birds. She began gathering items to last Quintus on his long journey to wherever he might go next.

He had told her why he had left the wall. Of the deaths of his friends, the treachery of the other Romans. She told him he would find employment elsewhere. Sellswords were in high demand, times being what they are. He agreed, if a bit reluctantly.

"Besides," she continued, gathering her snares. "Even at a modest salary, you could live in much grander style than anything I could afford you."

His calm, thoughtful gaze found her once again. "That depends on your definition of 'grand'," he said.

"Yes. Well," she stammered. "I'll return shortly." She ducked out of the cottage and darted along the path to set up her trap line.

She lingered, taking much more time than was necessary. Or wise. The sun was dipping low in the west and she cursed at herself for being such a coward. She'd be up half the night by the time she finished cooking the evening meal and cleaning up afterwards. And with everything she had to do through this season, it would be autumn again by the time she was able to catch up on sleep.

Picking up her pace, she hurried back to the hut. As if running would reverse time, let her catch the several hours she had lost.

The first thing she noticed was the smoke wafting from the chimney and the smell of stew. She entered quickly, baffled. "You didn't have to do that," she started to say. "I was going to-"

And that's when she noticed the flowers. Hundreds of them. Tiny clouds of sweet-smelling wildflowers gathered in bouquets on the table, woven into the thatch on the roof, hung in garlands from the rafters. She turned in a slow circle, eyes wide as she took in the sight, a smile on her face as the sweet smell pervaded her small home. "How- Why!" she gasped.

"Your supper's getting cold," he said. As if he hadn't just achieved the most amazing feat she had ever witnessed. "It's not as good as yours, of course. Nothing is. But you were so late I thought you'd be hungry."

Her head spinning, she sat down at the table, and reached for her bowl, nestled in a riot of wildflowers. Carefully, she lifted a spoonful of stew to her lips and blew a bit of steam away before eating. "You're right, this isn't as good as mine," she said without thinking. And then choked on her stew when she realized what just came out of her mouth.

He just laughed softly. "Still honest."

She fought back her coughs and swallowed before meeting his eye. "Why did you do this?"

He sat down across from her and was quiet a moment before he spoke. "I wanted to. I like doing things that surprise you. That make you happy." He broke eye contact, stirring his stew. "When I returned from the wall. You smiled. It was the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. And it was for me. I'll always treasure that." He looked up to meet her eye again. "I wanted to give you something. A memory to treasure, one like that."

"But... why?" She began to tremble, fearing what he would say next but unable to stop herself from asking. She wanted to know everything, to wonder at nothing after he left.

"Because I love you. The witch who refused to bewitch me but did despite herself." He stood and made his way around the table, closer to her. She began to tremble in earnest. "And all that I endured last autumn, I would do ten times over. Because it led me to you." He knelt before her, and took one of her hands in both of his, pressing her fingers to his lips. A reverent gesture. "But I cannot bear to cause you distress." He kissed her fingers again. She could scarce breathe. "You are right. I could find another place for myself in the world. But..." his voice softened, and he swallowed. "But the only place I want is here. Beside you. If you would have me."

"Don't go," she whispered. "Stay with me."

He looked up at her, his fingers tightening on hers. "As long as you would have me," he breathed.

She pushed herself away from the table and slid to her knees on the floor with him. "Will you kiss me, my patient love?" she said, lifting her other hand to slowly trace his jaw with her fingertips.

He laughed softly. "I can offer much more than that," he murmured before closing the distance between them, his lips gentle on hers.

She made a low, hungry sound in the back of her throat, his kiss and his touch reigniting feelings she had tried to extinguish. He rumbled in response and gathered her close, his fingers threading into her hair. "Not here," he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing hers. "Not on the floor."

She giggled a little as he lifted her. "You Romans are so decadent," she teased, nibbling his lips.

He carefully laid her on the bed, lowering himself over her. "I've spent enough time sleeping on the ground," he said softly, his lips quirking, a spark of humor in his eye. "One gets sore after a few hours."

"A few hours?" she giggled, pushing herself up on her elbows.

He deftly untied the stays of her bodice, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric to cup her breast. She gasped at the feeling, his rough fingers on her sensitive skin, and curled toward him. "My honest love deserves no less," he said, tightening his hold, his thumb playing over her nipple. He leaned toward her, pressing soft kisses along her collarbone.

She sighed and lay back again, slipping her arms around him. "I have dreamed of you," she admitted, feeling a little foolish. And then feeling foolish at feeling foolish, considering her present situation.

"I could scarce think of anything else for these past four months," he growled against her skin, his other hand traveling down her side to gather a fistful of her skirt, pushing it high on her hips. "These damned clothes," he huffed in frustration. "What I wouldn't give to put you in a stola. And then tear it off."

She gasped and giggled even harder, squirming beneath him to slither out of her dress. Her movements drew a groan from him, and she felt the hardness pressed against her thigh. She shivered, her arousal pulsing hotter between her thighs. "And what would you do once you had removed this stola," she purred as she stripped layer after layer after damnable layer of wool and linen. The attempt to be quick and alluring was proving to be more difficult than she had anticipated.

It didn't seem to be bothering Quintus, whose hungry eyes followed her every movement while he quickly shed his own tunic. "Gods, where to start." He stretched out over her, his hands skimming over her breasts, her sides, her hips and thighs. His lips hovering over her skin, breathing soft, hungry, reverent kisses to the hollow of her throat, over her collarbone, and down to her breasts. "I would pour wine over your skin and lick it off," he murmured, his tongue playing over her nipple. She shrieked with laughter and wrapped her legs around his waist. He grinned against her skin, his nails dragging over her hips before his searching fingers traveled toward her center.

"And then?" She squealed as his fingers slipped into her cleft.

He didn't answer with words, he simply followed the path of his fingers with his mouth, looking up at her as he pressed hungry kisses to her center. She stared at him, her eyes wide. "Just... like that?"

He groaned quietly as he opened her with his fingers. "Sweeter than wine," he murmured before tracing his tongue along her, centering on her nub. She arched her back, lifting her hips as his lips and tongue began to do things she never had thought possible. She gripped his close-cropped hair tightly, writhing, gasping for breath. He smiled into her, pleased by her reaction. He curled his fingers inside of her his lips wrapped around her nub. She wailed as her back arched, pressing herself into his touch, his mouth.

And then he was on top of her, inside of her, heat and strength and solid muscle. His fingers slipped in between them, searching to keep touching her, to bring her to climax again. She clawed at his back, half in ecstasy, half in an attempt to convince herself that he was actually there, this was actually happening. His lips brushed her throat, murmuring prayers of thanks to his Roman gods and she wailed again, clutching him tightly, writhing beneath him as she shuddered. It was almost too much. Too much too fast.

He cried out with her, his back tensing beneath her nails as he thrust deeper. His movements became less measured, more hungry. The months of longing and denial building up a desperate need for her that he had kept closely guarded. Now revealed. He held her down by her hips and pressed his forehead against hers, staring deep into her eyes as he took her so forcefully she could barely breathe, barely think, could no longer tell where her body ended and his began. And then he cried out, his whole body shuddering. She held him deep as he pulsed into her, panting against her throat, his hands curled over her backside.

Draping her arms around his neck, she laughed breathlessly. "I thought you said 'hours'," she teased, smoothing his hair.

He smiled blissfully. "Give me a few moments," he rumbled, kissing her throat. "I keep my promises."

"Roman diligence," she sighed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I've heard of such things."

He lifted himself up on his elbows and looked at her. His eyes no longer thoughtful, but tender. A small, wondering smile playing over his lips as he touched her hair. "My Arianne."

She gasped and shoved at him playfully. "Yours, is it? I'm beholden to no man."

He grinned, unmoved by her shoving. "You told me once that you were free to choose."

She nodded, her giggles dying away. "I did."

He slipped his ring off of his thumb, and kissed her palm before sliding it onto her finger. "It would be the greatest honor I could ever hope for, if you were to choose me." He said, looking up at her with a hint of uncertainty.

She curled her fingers into a fist, holding tight to the ring, several sizes too big. "I do choose you," she whispered.

He broke into a wide smile before gathering her close and kissing her deeply once more. And proceeded to make good on his promises. All of them.

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Many thanks to Solitae for being such a wonderful beta. And to Ouyangdan, Tjadis and Sol for all their encouragement.


End file.
